discordant, exhilarating . Four of them picked up the litter, the throng surged toward the street, followed by Zinibe in her brilliant palanquin borne high upon the shoulders of her carriers. The doors burst open and the prostrate women staggered after it to the very threshold. They needed no nahwehe now to muster their tears. This was sincere sorrow, as if they realized for the first time that Zinibe was gone.
Kalipha, Mohammed, and Farrah were waiting for me at the door. We had to hurry, for the procession was well in advance of us; on account of Kalipha’s club-foot we never quite caught up with it. Through the narrow streets it wove, triumphantly singing. Under the busy gate, and out upon the vast sun-warmed plain. Jemma Towfeek, the little mosque toward which we were heading, reposed placidly among its scattered tombs. The bobbing cherry-red fezes, the snowy burnouses, the lusty voices bawling Allah’s praise, and, like an afterthought , in the rear, the tossing palanquin, its colours so splendid in the sunshine! Its carriers were constantly changing, for anyone who wishes to expiate his sins may help to bear the bier. At short distances, consequently, there was a scramble for its handles. Up the road, then diagonally across the plain to Jemma Towfeek we swept.
Kalipha thought best that I should wait at the mosque during the interment, so Mohammed and I seated ourselves on a bench outside the door. The loud ringing voices gradually receded – the grave must have been at least half a mile away – until they were just a faraway, sweet tone upon the silence. Several times I had chanced to be wandering in the cemeteries at the time of a burial. I knew just how the shrouded body would be lowered deep down into the narrow brickchamber prepared for it, how logs would be laid across the top to support the roof of bricks and cement, how earth would be shovelled over it and packed and levelled.
The events of the morning had brought vividly to Mohammed’s mind the death of his grandmother, Meneh, who lived on like a hardy perennial in the hearts of her family. But the little boy spoke of her playfulness, her drollery, how some evenings she would keep the family circle doubled with laughter. His own rang out fearlessly at the recollection . I thought I had never heard a better sound! For pure delight I joined him. It was wonderful to be laughing together like this! Something hard and tight and very dry inside me was relaxing, expanding. I begged him to tell me more about Meneh.
Before very long we were aware of voices down on the road. In scattered groups the men were leaving the cemetery. Presently Farrah and Kalipha came up, and we reached the road in time to be among the last stragglers. One of them was Zinibe’s Mohammed in his rust-coloured burnous, hiking home all by himself.
The men were ready for a smoke, so we stopped at the first café we came to. We sat quietly drinking our coffees, facing the cemetery where Zinibe lay waiting for the two fearsome angels, Munkar and Nekeer, who would descend, any moment now, to examine her concerning her Faith. ‘Ah yes, my friends,’ sighed Kalipha, abstractedly. And then, as if to himself, he added, ‘Today it is Zinibe, and tomorrow – which of us?’
CHAPTER 7
The Month of Abstinence
S IDI RAMADAN IS COMING to those who smoke and pinch snuff! a little girl sang teasingly as she skipped down the street. The patrons of the coffee-house smiled at one another. The Month of Abstinence was hardest on them. To do without food and water from daybreak until sunset was one thing, but to do without coffee and cigarettes was almost more than a man could bear. Ramadan! The Holy City talked of nothing else! Days of piqued faces and short tempers, of lassitude and street brawls, but the nights, ah, the halcyon nights of feasting and conviviality! Glorious Ramadan – ninth month of the Moslem calendar – when the Prophet received the first revelation!
Kalipha was the happiest man
Kalipha, Mohammed, and Farrah were waiting for me at the door. We had to hurry, for the procession was well in advance of us; on account of Kalipha’s club-foot we never quite caught up with it. Through the narrow streets it wove, triumphantly singing. Under the busy gate, and out upon the vast sun-warmed plain. Jemma Towfeek, the little mosque toward which we were heading, reposed placidly among its scattered tombs. The bobbing cherry-red fezes, the snowy burnouses, the lusty voices bawling Allah’s praise, and, like an afterthought , in the rear, the tossing palanquin, its colours so splendid in the sunshine! Its carriers were constantly changing, for anyone who wishes to expiate his sins may help to bear the bier. At short distances, consequently, there was a scramble for its handles. Up the road, then diagonally across the plain to Jemma Towfeek we swept.
Kalipha thought best that I should wait at the mosque during the interment, so Mohammed and I seated ourselves on a bench outside the door. The loud ringing voices gradually receded – the grave must have been at least half a mile away – until they were just a faraway, sweet tone upon the silence. Several times I had chanced to be wandering in the cemeteries at the time of a burial. I knew just how the shrouded body would be lowered deep down into the narrow brickchamber prepared for it, how logs would be laid across the top to support the roof of bricks and cement, how earth would be shovelled over it and packed and levelled.
The events of the morning had brought vividly to Mohammed’s mind the death of his grandmother, Meneh, who lived on like a hardy perennial in the hearts of her family. But the little boy spoke of her playfulness, her drollery, how some evenings she would keep the family circle doubled with laughter. His own rang out fearlessly at the recollection . I thought I had never heard a better sound! For pure delight I joined him. It was wonderful to be laughing together like this! Something hard and tight and very dry inside me was relaxing, expanding. I begged him to tell me more about Meneh.
Before very long we were aware of voices down on the road. In scattered groups the men were leaving the cemetery. Presently Farrah and Kalipha came up, and we reached the road in time to be among the last stragglers. One of them was Zinibe’s Mohammed in his rust-coloured burnous, hiking home all by himself.
The men were ready for a smoke, so we stopped at the first café we came to. We sat quietly drinking our coffees, facing the cemetery where Zinibe lay waiting for the two fearsome angels, Munkar and Nekeer, who would descend, any moment now, to examine her concerning her Faith. ‘Ah yes, my friends,’ sighed Kalipha, abstractedly. And then, as if to himself, he added, ‘Today it is Zinibe, and tomorrow – which of us?’
CHAPTER 7
The Month of Abstinence
S IDI RAMADAN IS COMING to those who smoke and pinch snuff! a little girl sang teasingly as she skipped down the street. The patrons of the coffee-house smiled at one another. The Month of Abstinence was hardest on them. To do without food and water from daybreak until sunset was one thing, but to do without coffee and cigarettes was almost more than a man could bear. Ramadan! The Holy City talked of nothing else! Days of piqued faces and short tempers, of lassitude and street brawls, but the nights, ah, the halcyon nights of feasting and conviviality! Glorious Ramadan – ninth month of the Moslem calendar – when the Prophet received the first revelation!
Kalipha was the happiest man
Similar Books
